


he can love others and still love thee

by raven_aorla



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Femdom, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Sub!Q, dom!Eve, top!Mallory, vanilla!Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond has come to love Q, perhaps above all others (currently alive). But he needs his conquests for work and play. Q has come to love Bond, so much it hurts sometimes. But he needs certain things Bond isn't a natural at. And he needs people to look after him when 007 is on assignment. Besides, isn't the point of working in Management to be able to take care of your top employees? None of them were ever going to have conventional love lives no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sweet Marie, she loves just me.  
> (She also loves Maurice McGhee.)  
> No she don't, she loves just me.  
> (She also loves Louise Dupree.)  
> No she don't, she loves just me.  
> (She also loves the willow tree.)  
> No she don't, she loves just me!  
> (Poor, poor fool, why can't you see,  
> She can love others and still love thee.)
> 
> \- Shel Silverstein

"I'm not going to be able to stay faithful," Bond says when the metaphorical dust has settled, even as Q still blinks, sleepy and pliant, pillowed against his chest. "I could try. I might even succeed for a while. But even if a mission didn't call for it I know I would slip and - I just don't want to hurt you."

Q smiles and threads his fingers through those of Bond's right hand. "James. You're making this harder than it has to be. If you don't mind me seeing other people, I don't mind you seeing other people. Using the appropriate protection and getting tested frequently, of course."

"Really?"

"I didn't have any false expectations when agreeing to sleep with you. And I, unlike some people, have been blessed with ample amounts of compersion - that's when you're happy to see someone you love happy, even if that happiness involves romance or sex with others."

This sends Bond into quiet wonderment. "I see."

"That sound all right?"

Bond manhandles Q into a position where they're face-to-face. "You could have said something earlier and saved me a lot of dithering."

"I wanted to know if you cared enough to try anyway. I'm well worth it."

While Bond grumbles, he doesn't disagree.

......

007 is on a mission to Lesotho when Eve makes an executive decision to force the Quartermaster home even if it requires pulling him in a headlock the entire way. "Q, you've been here in excess of twenty hours. Bond is fine and will be fine and if he isn't someone who actually is supposed to work the night shift will call you in."

"Don't worry about me..." He looks a wreck, hair going in all directions, indigo circles under his eyes, his hands shaking as he grips his silly mug. "Oh. It's empty. When did that happen?"

"I will do whatever it takes to get you to go to bed for a full night." Eve punctuates this by gripping Q's skinny black tie and firmly tugging on it.

And immediately notices Q's minute sigh and slight melt, how his eyelids lower and his lips quiver. Oh. Ohhhh.

"Do you really mean that?" he murmurs, knowing the game's up.

"Will Bond mind?" The relationship isn't known to the rest of MI6 besides herself and M, though others might guess, and as long as it stays that way M doesn't see the use in quashing it and driving two of their greatest resources to pathological levels of subterfuge.

"We've agreed it's fine." Q looks around. The lab is deserted, all his staff having gone home three or more hours ago. "And while he's...certainly experienced, he actually isn't an aficionado of the particular..."

"I think I might be able to help you with that. I'll drive. Especially since you don't have a car."

They don't say much on the way. Q is in a state where he's too exhausted to be useful but too wound-up and anxious to sleep. Eve is busy planning.

She doesn't waste time once they're in Q's flat (she hardly even sees anything). "I'm going to wash up. When I come out I expect any toys you wish to put forth for consideration to be laid out neatly on the bed, and for you to be naked and on your knees. You may retain your glasses if you wish. My preferred honorific is 'Miss'. Understood, boy?"

Q's shudder aches with gratitude. "Yes, Miss, thank you, Miss."

When she returns she sees leather buckled restraints, both wrists and ankles, a pack of condoms and dental dams, a box of rubber gloves, a collar, a riding crop, a large hairbrush, a flogger, a blindfold, and a ball gag. She's impressed by his speed and efficiency. Q is now kneeling on the floor, sans glasses, his hands clasped behind his back. The very picture of meekness.

"Do you have a preferred safe word or system?" she asks him, firmly but not painfully taking a fistful of his hair.

"Red, yellow, green, Miss. And snapping fingers if gagged, Miss."

"I will abide by that. Hold still."

"Yes, Miss." He lets her strap the collar around his neck and secure his hands behind his back.

"Up." She helps him onto the bed, face down. "First I'm going to punish you for not taking better care of yourself. Not too hard, not more than you can take without too much strain, because I know you did it for good reasons. But you still need to be punished."

"Yes, Miss, thank you, Miss."

She can't help but stroke his cheek for that, tenderness curling in her chest. "Then you're going to service me with that smart mouth of yours. If you do well I'll stroke you off before we're finished and I tuck you into bed for at least eight hours' sleep, understood?"

"Yes, Miss, thank you, Miss."

She gives fifty strikes of the riding crop and fifty lashes with the flogger, carefully hitting only the fleshy parts of his backside, making him count each one and thanking her for them. He cries out sometimes but says "green" whenever she checks in.

He's a little sloppy when going down on her, but she knows how tired he is, and besides he does have enough experience and technique for it to be satisfying nonetheless. She gives him a drink of water afterwards, tells him he did well, and then promptly gags him to help drop him into deeper subspace. He's been hard for pretty much the entire scene; it takes less than three minutes of her hands on his cock and both sweet and dominating words in his ear to make him come.

"Oh God, thank you," he says, sounding deliciously drowsy, once he's free and they're tidying up. Well, she's doing most of the tidying up and he keeps trying to get up to stagger helpfully and she just keeps nudging him back onto the bed. "Thank you so much. I needed that."

"I think I did too," Eve replies, feeling all aglow and settled herself.

"You can stay if you like. I'd love that actually."

"You sure?"

"Posivtive. I mean postivive. I mean..."

She presses him flat on his back and pulls the covers over both of them, turning off the light. "I know just what you mean," she says. By the time she's done kissing him in the dark he's lost to the world. Though he still pulls her close with a happy sigh.

.........

The one that takes all of them considerably more by surprise is set in motion on a Tuesday night when Bond is running around killing and fucking people in Argentina, and Q is riding in a company car with M on their way back from an official dinner with the department heads of several other agencies. Various branch heads from MI6 had been there with them, but only Q needed transportation home. It's embarrassing, and what's more he's not sure what to say to M, and even worse the traffic is going to drag this trip out to at least forty minutes.

"Thank you again for letting me share, sir," Q says. He hopes he hasn't said that too many times.

M is still genial about it. "It's no bother. I'm still getting used to having a personal driver myself. Wasn't long ago I was relying on the Tube just as you do most of the time."

Then the company car ends up having engine trouble.

And then it takes forever to get a cab.

And once they do it starts raining torrentially. With thunder and lightning mixed in.

So though Q can list hundreds, hundreds of situations he would find more socially comfortable, including the dreams where he is giving a presentation in front of a group of donors and realizes he's forgotten to put trousers on, he sees no course other than to invite M up to his flat and hope the rain lets up soon.

M continues to be pleasant and gracious, but he seems tense, too. "Care for a drink, sir?" That's what people do in scenarios like this, right? Offer beverages?

"Just water, thank you." M gazes about the room and absentmindedly loosens his tie.

When Q approaches him with a glass of water, with ice, he sees that M's gaze has frozen. He follows the line of sight - and promptly wishes the Earth would swallow him up.

With Bond's full knowledge, Q and Eve have been doing scenes roughly once a week, even when Bond is in town. (Bond has suggested that he be allowed to watch one of these days, if that's fine with the others. Q would love that but he hasn't asked Eve yet.) And the most recent time Q forgot to put away the collar. It's sitting on the bookshelf. And it is very, very obviously not the kind meant for dogs or cats.

"I should go," M says, all in a rush, getting up to leave.

Not thinking, not even knowing where he's going with this, Q touches his arm. "Sir, it's not - I mean it's just a hobby, it's my personal life, it doesn't affect my work..."

M laughs, a horrible hollow sound. "It might not affect your work, but it does affect mine."

Q realizes he's misunderstood. He's not sure what the correct understanding is, though. Not yet. "Sir?"

"If you had any idea what it does to me when you call me that. If you had the slightest inkling of how immoral, unprofessional, inappropriate some of my thoughts - I should never have - I'm sorry. Forgive me. Forget this outburst. It need never have happened." M turns to leave.

Q takes his hand. "What if I want it to have, sir?"

His superior has never appeared so thoroughly lost before. "I mustn't..."

"Gareth."

"Oh bloody fucking hell." Mallory bodily lifts Q up and deposits him on the sofa, peeling Q's clothes off and kissing and biting and just _consuming_ him like he's been starving. It's likely he has been. "I know you're competent, and you're an adult, you're no blushing ingenue or bratty boy, but God you ruin me with your eyes and hair and your pert smiles and dry wit and God I hate you and I love you and if you don't stop me right this fucking second I'm going to break you down and build you up again in my own image and I won't give a damn what anyone says or how sacrilegious my oaths get or wrong it all is, so help me, Q..."

Q hopes his keening and moaning makes it clear that he's not going to stop this. He manages to hiss a "ysss" noise. That works, right? Even if it's not a word, technically speaking.

"I want to fuck you senseless, Q. I want to make you forget all your schematics and code and arrogance and be putty in my hands. I want and want and it's ripping me apart, and you're so beautiful and soft under my fingers and I want to take your brilliant mind and obliterate it tonight, make you my little cockslut and then, then I want to cradle you and adore you and make everything right for you and keep you safe from everything but me and my want because there is no safety from that, no refuge, no harbor - unless you tell me to stop..."

"I'm not going to tell you to stop," Q gasps to the whirlwind engulfing him. "We should move to the bed, though. More space and there are condoms and lube. There's no sin in wanting and I invite you to take."

Gareth Mallory has an even deeper well of impassioned dirty talk than Q ever expected, which continues throughout the sex. And once they've both orgasmed and have done the bare minimum of cleanup, Mallory puts an arm under Q's head, a gentle hand in his hair, and kisses him on the bridge of his nose. "You're fucking wonderful, is what you are."

Q hums in reply, listening to the heartbeat against his.

"So how many people are you sleeping with? I ask out of idle curiosity; it won't affect my feelings. Actually I would be aghast if I were the only one."

Q smirks at that. "You would be the third. If you want to be a regular. Up to you."

"So you are with Bond, still? Even as he does his usual rounds?"

"Yes."

"Who else?'

"Moneypenny."

"Oh. Well. Not like I can chastise either of you for it, can I?"

"I do think you've lost the higher ground, sir."

Mallory runs a finger along Q's cheek. This is the most content Q has ever seen him. "Ah, but look what I gained."


	2. Chapter 2

"You're fucking Mallory?"

"Technically he's fucking me."

Bond looks impressed rather than dismayed. He pulls Q into his arms, his voice low and fond. "Tell him that as long as he doesn't get greedy I won't make a fuss."

Q grins and undoes Bond's tie. "He's only going to come over while you're on mission. That way you two don't ever have to acknowledge it to each other or worry about schedule conflicts. I think we all can agree that you're both too much alpha males to coexist peacefully in such a setting. Eve, on the other hand...she says yes. She visits on Friday nights now."

"Mm." Bond kisses the hollow of Q's collarbone. "Then we have some time to get reacquainted before the big show."

....

Bond is a few minutes late that Friday, due to an unexpected briefing from Tanner before he could take his leave, but Q has provided the three of them with the passcode to his steel-backed door, and programmed the sensor pad to accept each of their thumbprints. It's Eve who greets him in the foyer, fixing a pair of scotch-and-sodas. "Ah, good to see you. We were getting a little anxious. Well, I think Q was too; he can't really talk at the moment. Drink?"

"Thank you. Is he in the bedroom?"

"Let me show you."

While he has dabbled in the occasional bit of bondage and sadomasochism to satisfy a sexual partner, Bond has never really studied the pastime nor put much enthusiasm into it. This is one of the reasons he is glad Q has others in his life to fulfill his cravings to submit. That said, the sight of his - their - lover as he is now sends a jolt of desire straight to his groin.

Q has his hands cuffed separately to headboard, a spreader bar keeping his legs apart and his erection exposed and vulnerable He is also collared, gagged, and with a thick plug in his arse. He also looks completely blissful. At peace.

"We've agreed that I'm going to ride him. You can touch yourself if you like, Bond, but after I've had my go you're welcome to have him take your cock as well. I would prefer if you kept him bound and gagged in some capacity, as he's never allowed to use his hands when I'm in charge and only sometimes allowed to use his mouth. Generally to service me, thank me, or respond to checking in."

"Do you want me once she's done with you?" Bond asks, lightly stroking Q's chest.

Q smiles around the gag and nods emphatically.

"Now that's agreed, give us a bit of room." Eve undresses without fanfare and then rolls a condom onto Q. She touches her forehead to Q's and lets out a long exhale as she slides herself onto him, her warm folds taking him in, and moves with exquisite, excruciating slowness. "You're being my good boy tonight, aren't you? Mmm, so eager, so willing. We're very happy to have you with us. Such good boy. My sweet boy."

Some nights Q wants to be hurt, other times comforted. Eve is happy with either - her kink is being in charge; it doesn't matter how as long as her submissive is happy. Right now she is even happier. Q's prick is long without excessive girth, good for her to maneuver on and about, and once she uses him for her vaginal orgasm she can give herself a clitoral one while watching Bond take him.

Q doesn't penetrate others often and he is quivering all over when he comes. He slumps in his restraints, eyes heavy-lidded. Eve takes out the gag. "Feeling good?"

"Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss."

She kisses him and pats him on the cheek. "Would you like some water before the second act?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Circulation fine? Anywhere numb or tingling?"

He has to think about this before he knows. "My right ankle tingles a little, Miss."

"Bond, let both his ankles loose. It'll be easier for you to get him where you want him anyway. I'm getting a drink for the good boy here."

It isn't long before Q is sideways Bond's lap, his hands behind his back, and now that he is properly hydrated Eve hands Bond the gag. "Doing all right?" Bond asks before putting it back.

"Don't ask stupid questions, James."

Bond chuckles. "Then let's get this toy out of you and put something better inside. First, though, open."

It's adorable how much Q loves being forced to shut up when in the bedroom, precisely because it's so different from his usual personality. He whines and squirms when the plug slides out, but positively croons with contentment when Bond enters him. This soon turns to shuddering breaths as Bond sets up a rhythm.

Eve is sitting in an armchair and using a vibrator on herself, looking similarly relaxed. "You two are beautiful together."

"I'd say...I'd say he contributes most of that..." Bond buries his face deep in Q's hair and grips Q's shoulders hard enough to leave marks. So soon after coming once and so intensely, Q never goes more than half-mast, but he makes a delightful doll for Bond's pleasure and produces enough noise for the both of them.

Afterwards Q has a lover on either side, petting and cuddling and occasionally giving him a lazy grope or snog. "This is the best argument yet for work/life balance I've come across," Q says.

"That it is," Eve says. "You should get a bigger bed if we're going to do this often, though. I might fall off if I move."

Bond scoots over on his side. "Here. Some room."

"Thank you."

"I have something for you. A little thing. But it's something." Q stares up at the ceiling as if stars were to be found there.

"Yes?" Bond asks.

Eve says, "I'm all ears."

In hushed tones, Q confesses, "My name's Cyril."

Bond kisses Q's hand. "Thank you."

Eve doesn't say anything, but she curls against him and puts an arm around his waist.

When Eve and Q wake Bond is gone, but Eve notices they've been moved more into the center of the bed and an extra blanket is covering them that wasn't there earlier.

....

Mallory can't make his uninterrupted evenings off coincide with 007's absences as often as he'd like, but he reminds himself even the smallest fraction of anything is infinitely greater than zero. And in a series of deeply encrypted emails he and Q have negotiated terms, limits, and requests for when they do have time together.

The cab he takes tonight drops him off a few blocks away. Mallory walks the remaining distance. Q's security system recognizes him as an authorized guest.

Q is in checked navy and grey flannel pyjamas and a matching scarf, his feet bare, intent on a video game. It looks like he's slaying a dragon. It makes him appear even more youthful than he already does.

It isn't difficult to sneak up behind him and put a hand over his mouth, Mallory's other hand grabbing a fistful of Q's shirt. "Having fun?"

Q pries the hand off his mouth with both of his and kisses it. "Not nearly as much as I could be, sir."

"Save your progress, shut the system off, and get on the sofa."

By the time Q has followed all these orders Mallory has taken off his shoes, tie, and jacket. He sits on top of Q's legs, pinning him, and begins undoing the younger man's buttons. "You seemed so cozy. It's a pity I'm intent on getting you sweaty and disheveled. I won't be able to rest tonight until you're marked up, wrecked, so smeared and stained and grimy that I'm going to have to give you a bath to make you fit for work tomorrow."

Q's pupils are dilated and he wriggles against Mallory's weight. "Please..please..."

"And I'm going to take two hours to do it. Not counting the bath. At the very least." Q's buttons undone, Mallory grips Q's bony wrists in one of his hands and trails invisible patterns on Q's chest. "You let the monster out, you know, and now it might be too late to not get eaten up."

Reduced once again to incoherent babbling, Q puts up a token struggle just to see how strongly he is held. Mallory doesn't budge.

Instead he starts using his fingernails, as well, to lightly scratch and tease Q's captive body. He pinches a nipple, eliciting a squeak. Mallory teases, "Now, now. Department heads should be made of tougher stuff than this."

Mallory keeps his word and takes his time, eventually pulling off Q's pyjama bottoms while holding Q down by the throat. They both know that Q could fight his way out of this if he wanted to, but Q wouldn't dream of doing it here, not when he's being given such attention. It becomes too unwieldy a pretense eventually, though, so once Q is naked (though Mallory remains clothed), Mallory pulls him into a sitting position and climbs to cover him with his own body.

The kisses and caresses are weighted with ownership, and when Q tries to do any touching back he gets a slap on the wrist. "You're not initiating. You're not in control."

It's a full hour and forty minutes before a combination of pity and his own arousal brings Mallory to actual fucking. It doesn't take him long to finish, thanks to the self-imposed wait, but he expertly jerks Q off while calling him endearments that sound like names and names that sound like endearments.

Q is limp and enervated after. Mallory, who has commandeered one of Q's dressing gowns, kisses the top of his head and whispers, "Let's get you clean again, shall we?"

"Mm, y'sir." And he follows where he is led.

As they wait for the tub to fill Mallory props Q up against the wall, running fingers all over him and kissing everywhere he thinks might possibly have been kissed less than five times already. Q sort of pours himself into the bath once it's full enough and is content to be scrubbed and fussed over.

Just before Q cleans his teeth, he turns and says in something approaching his daytime voice, "You should stay tonight, Gareth. I'll take the Tube and you take a cab tomorrow. Otherwise the extra suits you stashed here earlier would go to waste."

"If you insist, I might be persuaded." The thought of his own home, lonely and dark, is particularly unappealing now.

"Spare toothbrush." Q hands it to him.

They sleep in a tangle. Mallory for once dreams of something other than Northern Ireland.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this a separate fic, but it's in the same verse so I decided to fold it in. This one has discussions of people being really, really creepy and not respecting consent but no non-con or even dub-con actually happens.
> 
> I have no particular reason for using "Cyril" as Q's real name other than how he looks like a Cyril to me. And because I haven't seen another fic with that as his name. The "Bertram" is a tribute to Bertie Wooster, the one who had Jeeves as a valet in P.G. Wodehouse's stories (though his lesser-known character Psmith - with a silent p - is my real favorite in his writing and one of my top five characters of all time). 
> 
> ETA: His name used to be "Cecil", but I changed it after getting into Welcome to Night Vale and realizing that this could get confusing.

Q never left MI6 at three in the afternoon. Never. Sometimes the only thing that made him return to his flat was the mandatory work/life balance policies that set maximums for how long employees were permitted to stay at the office, instituted two years back when the R at the time, a Cyril Bertram, collapsed in the middle of a meeting. On a related topic this was yet another reason less than a half-dozen people were privy to the information that Q's heavily classified birth certificate read "Cyril Maxmillian Bertram III".

 

But today he was in fact leaving at three in the afternoon, head down and shoulders squared, stalking his way towards the door as if anyone who tried to speak to him would just as well throw themselves into a scorpion pit. He hadn't zipped his parka or even shut his briefcase properly, and his Oyster card was already clenched in his hand so he could get on the Tube as soon as possible.

 

Trust the only person Q was familiar with who had literally been through falling into a scorpion pit to be the one to intercept him. Trust him to be in his habitual mode of both smooth and stoic, a disgustingly expensive suit fitting him even more disgustingly well, and trust him to stand right in front of Q like a wall of muscle and tailoring.

 

"Move, 007."

 

"Not when you look like you're going to blow up a building out of peevishness, or at the very least terrify everyone in your train car with your glowering," Bond replied, though more gently than his words suggested, placing a hand on Q's shoulder.

 

"I won't stay here."

 

"Wise. Fancy a lift?"

 

"If you're expecting -"

 

"I expect nothing except for you being at a very high risk for becoming a supervillain if you can't tell someone what's wrong and pull back from your current level of seething rage, and I know you hate our psych people as much as I do."

 

Q took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut, then snapping them open again. "Fine. Though I reserve the right to evict you if I need it."

 

"Wouldn't dream of anything else."

 

Bond didn't try to coax Q into explaining during the drive, as Q was clearly processing his emotions and how to describe them and wasn't ready to verbalize yet. They'd been doing whatever it was they were doing for about seven months now, long enough so that they had at least some insight into each other's workings, when to press and when not to, what was helpful and what wasn't.

 

Only when inside Q's flat and behind locked doors and the most advanced private security system in Western Europe could they be Cyril and James. Even then Cyril had to consciously make an effort to relax into the sofa rather than sit at a ninety-degree angle. James sat beside him, close but not touching, and asked, "Is there someone I need to kill?"

 

Cyril ruefully laughed. "Perhaps that would be simpler if so, but the offenders in question are not only good agents but haven't technically broken any regulations or even laws."

 

"I can just wound them..."

 

"I'll consider more options when I'm capable of objectivity. I was using a stall in the gents' when Adams and 004, not knowing I was there, had an avid and detailed discussion speculating upon my private proclivities as well as what they would like to do to me regardless of whether the latter matched up at all with the former."

 

James didn't have a thousand-yard stare so much as he had a thirty-kilometer one. He reached out a hand. "May I?"

 

"Yes." Cyril unlaced his patent-leather oxfords and tugged off his socks, swinging his legs up and settling sideways against his lover's chest, allowing himself to be held with one arm supporting his neck and resting on his shoulder, James' right hand settling around one of his wrists and brushing it with his thumb.

 

"I'd like you to tell me more about what they said, but you don't have to."

 

Biting his lip for a moment before answering, Cyril said, "I don't remember the exact words or who said what. And I think I would become excessively upset if I attempted a reconstruction now."

 

"Fair enough." James kissed the hollow of Cyril's throat and did not suppress his smile at the little hitch in breathing that was his reward.

 

In fact Cyril could could remember everything verbatim, the cadences and enunciation all stark and vivid.

 

_So do you think our new little Q is a pouf? Got a bit of a stick up his arse already, could use something better there instead._

 

_Not so much my area, but just between you and me he's got a mouth like a tart. I'm half-convinced he wears lipstick. Someone should find out. In the public interest._

 

_God, it's all I can do to get my documents and supplies and the snippy lecture he always seems obliged to give you without wondering what'd be like to just bend him over the desk. Whether he'd put up a fuss or take it._

 

_It is the Quartermaster's job to keep the agents happy, isn't it?_

 

_I like the way you think._

 

And they'd laughed. Cyril had been unable to emerge from the stall until at least eight minutes after they'd left.

 

While he had been lost in his unpleasant reverie, James seemed to have come to a conclusion. "I want to try something, but of course as always you can stop it at any time. Are you up for giving it a go?"

 

"Yes." Distraction was good. And despite being someone who lied for a living, James had never lied to him, and Cyril knew how seriously both of them took it.

 

James pressed his forehead to Cyril's. "The objective is to make you feel comfortable and safe. If I am straying from the mission, I am relying upon you to provide guidance and possibly even a very tight and disappointed lecture."

 

Despite the silliness of the conceit Cyril was amused enough to play along. "The equipment you'll be needing is in the cabinet hidden under the bed. Will you require assistance locating it?"

 

"I don't think so. It would expedite the process if you would take all your clothes off and follow me to the armoury, though." James had one of the world's best poker faces but maintaining a serious facade was starting to get difficult.

 

What followed was unexpected but lovely in its own way. Naked, bound hand and foot and utterly helpless, Cyril spent the rest of the evening being kissed and held, tousled and cherished. Even after letting him out to assist with a simple pasta dinner, James stayed close by, talking of pleasant inconsequentialities.

 

 

For once he didn't tease Cyril about his affinity for wildlife programmes and sat through an hour of David Attenborough discussing tree frogs and fruit bats. It was worth it to see his lover rapt, his glasses reflecting the flickering television lights, with such a large mug of chamomile tea he joked that Cyril better not fall in and drown.

 

"If that were even physically possible you would fish me out again," Cyril murmured, not taking his eyes off the scurrying leafcutter ants Sir David seemed fair too excited about to be healthy. "Look, the ants with the immense jaws that fight and carry the heavy leaves need a smaller ant to perch on top of their leaves to help them navigate."

 

Grasping the drowsy metaphor, James replied, "M might take exception towards being referred to as a queen."

 

"Almost all ants are female, 007. To be a male ant would be to exist entirely as breeding stock and to die shortly after accomplishing this goal. Like with honeybees. Though honeybee drones actually explode at the moment of congress."

 

"Not a bad way to go," James said, sipping the cocoa Cyril had made for him and carefully hiding his secret enjoyment of it, though perhaps one day he might share his memory of Mother's cups of  _chocolat_ she made in an effort to ward off the bleak chill of the moor. If he did this would be the first time he'd spoken of it to anyone.

 

"If you end up dying that way, please do so while having sex with someone other than me."

 

No matter how many blankets James piled onto Cyril that night, and Cyril wearing a rumpled jumper on top of the TARDIS pajamas that James was to tell no one else existed - under pain of unexpectedly malfunctioning equipment - Cyril kept shivering. James wrapped his arms around him and thought darker things than he usually did in this company.

......

Two days later, a Wednesday, Bond slipped a flash drive into Moneypenny's lambskin briefcase as they passed in a corridor. At her raised eyebrow he said quietly, "I bribed R to look for security footage the Quartermaster insisted on examining himself even thought that's far below his pay grade. She found this. I promised I wouldn't intervene directly."

She nodded. "Good luck in Johannesburg, 007, and I'll take care of it."

.....

The next day, M informed a meeting of the various department heads that Agent Adams had accepted a reassigment to South Georgia and the South Sandwich islands.

"The motto there is  _Leo terram propriam protegat,_ did you know?" Eve asked Q as they walked down the stairs back to the ground floor, since Q had promised to leave the building to have lunch with her that day. 

Q had plenty of suspicions, but anything Eve Moneypenny did not reveal of her own free will was something she would never tell no matter the duress. Instead he rummaged through his satchel for his wallet. "I was never good with Latin, actually, was more interested in Japanese..."

"It means 'Let the lion protect his own land,'" M said, having been waiting for them to catch up with him, walking a step ahead the rest of the way down. "Moneypenny, if you could send out an announcement reminding all personnel that all rooms at Headquarters, no matter their nature, have constant surveillance?"

"I would be glad to, sir," Eve replied.

Q had never been so unnerved and yet so relieved at the same time. 

......

When Gareth came to visit as himself, not M, he made a habit of not bringing anything work-related with him. That Saturday, though, he placed a slim black case on Q's dining table that turned out to contain a Walthier PPK. "In case you want to get a head start on reprogramming the palm-print sensor, as 004 will no longer be requiring it."

Q stared at it. "I'm not going to ask."

"Just as well." Gareth pulled him in for a kiss. It was difficult to simply sack or court-martial MI6 operatives at the level of those two transgressors, but anyone who couldn't have common decency towards their coworkers was a far greater security risk than any other factors could justify. Besides, it was one thing to share this young man, another thing entirely to allow any possibility of harm to him. 

 


End file.
